Have you ever wanted to be someone else?
I typically like where I am and would rather be me than anybody else.
But there are occasions when I fervently wish I could trade lives with someone who seems to have it all together.
Like last fall, when Jack went rogue at the zoo and we had to flee in a dramatic fashion with plenty of screaming and flailing. I drove us home that day, crying alongside Jack and suddenly wishing I were Ree Drummond, The Pioneer Woman.
In my illogical state, I imaged that The Pioneer Woman doesn’t deal with crazy meltdowns at an overcrowded zoo. She is too busy organizing her well-stocked pantry, and helping wrangle cows, and writing charming self-deprecating quips on her blog.
And I wanted to trade places with her.
Not now, of course. Just in that awful moment.
Sometimes we wouldn’t mind having a different life. Or even a different name.
On the way to swimming lesson last week, Charlie asked me his last name, which he totally already knows. I reminded him of it anyway.
“No,” he said. “I’m Charlie Gamehunter.”
While I laughed, he kept thinking. “Actually,” he decided, “I’m Charlie CallofDuty.”
At this point we were both cackling, and he knew he was on a roll.
“I’m Charlie ModernWarfare,” proclaimed my gentle six-year-old with a triumphant smile.
He christened himself with titles of Xbox games.
In the same tradition, could call myself Megan BloggyBloggerton.
Or Megan SnarkyPants.
Or Megan BookAddict.
Or I can just stick with reality.